


Come Home

by rewrittengirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coping, Death, Insanity, Loss, M/M, Marriage, new found feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewrittengirl/pseuds/rewrittengirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Person Sherlock POV</p><p>John told Sherlock on a Tuesday that he was being redeployed to Afghanistan. What could Sherlock do but retaliate? How could he lose his best friend, the first friend he truly had, that he was aware of, to a danger more real than anything Sherlock could protect John from? Especially when...</p><p>Well, they only have so much time left, and they spend it together, gleefully as best they can. Suddenly, John isn't just Sherlock's friend anymore, but something else, something more profound and... /needed/ than Holmes will care to admit. It's only when John leaves for real that he realizes that yes, this is indeed love, something he thought he couldn't even begin to imagine.</p><p>Left alone to his own devices, Sherlock tries to understand his feelings for John, trying not to let anything on when they have video-chats. When John is about to come home on leave for the Holidays, Sherlock swears he will tell him how he feels. But the ringing doorbell stops him... It is not John, who he's expecting, at the door...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! For those of you who have never read this fanfiction before, welcome! This story was first posted on fanfiction.net, but the success of it prompted me to reevaluate past chapters and fix flaws to continuity, grammar, pacing, and depth. What you see here is a revised edition of the story (from chapters 1-3), and the continuation from 4 through 6 as I continue to write it (yes, this fiction is still in progress, because it's taken me quite a bit of time to FIND time to write the rest! xD). I will eventually replace these chapters on FF.net, but for now the revised versions will be on AO3! 
> 
> Also, I made a video to go along with this fic, using the song that inspired it (Come Home by OneRepublic). You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAVNwmzWJCg
> 
> And now, enjoy Come Home!

He told me on a Tuesday.

“Sherlock?” he said weakly.

I paid no attention. John must have been in one of those moods where he sees fit to try and get me to do something that he usually does, when in fact I have more important things to attend to. “Not now, John, I’m working.”

I _was_ working. I was trying to come up with a cure for diabetes. Simple stuff, really. Not that I liked to have my attention diverted for even a second.

But then a glance up told me John was genuinely worried. About _what_ I deduced from the slip of paper he clutched in his trembling hand. I also deduced the contents of the letter by noticing the emblem in the left corner. It was the symbol of Her Majesty’s Army.

I felt myself sit up and give him my full audience. “God, no...”

I’m sure there was some sort of disbelief gracing my features. Sadness also. Anger, yes. And then something I couldn’t describe... So very unlike me.

John opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yes, no. I will not have it.”

My companion huffed, and gave out a dry, cynical laugh. “I doubt you’d have much say in the matter, Sherlock. I have orders.”

“Damn your orders. Mycroft will see to it that they are destroyed, I assure you.” I smiled widely, pleased with my simple solution. I rubbed my hands and turned back to my work.

However, John stepped forward and caught my eye. I sighed and turned back to him.

“It’s not that easy, Sherlock,” he said quietly, sitting down next to me at the kitchen table where I was conducting my experiment.

“Yes it is. Mycroft _is_ the British government, you know.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” he said in frustration.

I took a moment to examine John, as I often did.

He was reserved at the moment, and sought to avoid my eyes. I suspected they would betray his true thoughts if they were to look directly at me. But of course his shyness revealed all I needed to know from him. He licked his lips and cleared his throat multiple times as we sat in silence.

Oh God. This was _not_ good.

“You _want_ to go.” It wasn’t a question.

But John answered anyway. “Yes I do.”

He still avoided my eyes. Coward.

“John, look at me.”

He complied immediately, knowing better than to ignore a command like that. Good man. No wonder Moriarty had thought him a pet.

But he wasn’t my pet. He was John. M--... My John. My John, whose eyes were moist with tears and regret-- but also wanting.

I searched for something to say, anything that would clarify why my mouth was dry, why my hands were becoming clammy. “Why would you... why would you want to go?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. One knew I was becoming desperate when I wouldn’t admit what I’d known all along.

“Because I...” he started. I didn’t have to look to know his fist had wrapped itself tightly around the paper.

“They can’t make you go back. You were wounded.” Blaming someone else.

“I know I was... But I’ve gotten better. I don’t use my cane anymore. I’m not depressed... It was only a matter of time.”

“They don’t need you! I’m positive there are other army doctors willing to go back.” A scapegoat, another solution.

John looked down at the paper in his hands as if it would give him the answer, give him something to say. “They want me. They consider me one of the best.”

“Well, you _are_ the best,” I scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you’ll go back. You’re _my_ doctor now.” Greedy, ungenerous... Not willing to share.

He rolled his eyes. “Now that’s just selfish, Sherlock! What about all those other people out there in Afghanistan or Iraq, all those dying soldiers and wounded civilians. Don’t you think they need my help too?”

I didn’t answer for precisely 15 seconds. “You know that I am a naturally selfish being.”

John groaned and moved to get up. “Forget about it, Sherlock.”

I grabbed his wrist. His reaction was unacceptable.

“John, stop,” I commanded. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t a pet, he wasn’t my dog. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, and yet I was. I always thought about what I said, so why were words coming out of my mouth when I didn’t want them to?

“Forgive me,” I began. The words felt wrong leaving my lips, heavy, as if they were only a mould of courteous plaster. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.” I wanted him to turn back... Why did I want him to care about what I felt? Why did I care at all...?

John stopped and turned back to me. That was good. That was great.

“Well that’s a change of pace. Feeling manipulative, are we?”

I let go of his wrist in shock. “And what is that supposed to mean?” I said, standing and stepping forward.

He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air with his nostrils flared. “As if you don’t know. You’re trying to make me feel guilty about leaving! Newsflash! The world _doesn’t_ revolve around Sherlock Holmes! I know, it’s a shock for you, but you better damn well get it through your thick head that this is what _I_ want, and I’m going with or without your consent!”

“How could you want to leave?! You can’t leave!” I don’t want you to leave...

“How do you _KNOW_?!” he shouted. Strange... John never shouted at me. He was always so patient.

“I know, because you need me, John, and I need you.”

I didn’t shout back. I didn’t like to shout at John. It was... It was a waste of energy... Yes, that was my reason.

John leaned against the table, clearly trembling with frustration. I could see the anger leaking out of his ears if I looked close enough.

“You don’t need me, Sherlock. You were fine before we ever met. You won’t change with my absence.”

I was silent. We had both gradually come to a standstill, John shaking with madness and me... Well let’s not get into how I felt, for I do so hate dealing with my feelings.

Let’s just address John’s comment, and how wrong it was. Yes, I do need you John, and no, I wasn’t fine before, and yes, it will all change. _Idiot..._

Finally, after a long and positively _robust_ silence of both parties coming to their respective senses, I took a single step to envelop John in my arms.

I was not against embracing John, or Mrs. Hudson. I only had an aversion to touch concerning other people, because other people didn’t matter. Not like Mrs. Hudson, the old bat. Not like my John.

I hugged my best friend then. Someone looking in on us might think how outrageous it was for me to be touching someone, but the thing about me is that I never do anything quite as expected, or that isn’t necessary. So, conclusively, the hug was something that was necessary, that was needed.

“You won’t be here to remind me to sleep, you know.”

“I know.”

“Or eat.”

“I know.”

“... Or brush my teeth.”

John was quiet and I thought for a moment I’d crushed the air out of him. But then I felt a tremor coming from him, then a strangled sound, like he was choking. Alarmed, I released him slightly.

Then I realized he was laughing.

“I know, Sherlock! I know!”

I couldn’t help it when my face stretched into a smile. I let go of him completely and proceeded to laugh with him.

For a moment I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His eyes gleamed with joyous moisture, a brighter blue than I’d ever seen them. He was grinning from ear to ear, and I found his hands clutching my arms, which were still holding his for balance. It was a warm feeling, laughing with him. I could never laugh like this with anyone else. I didn’t trust anyone else with the sound of my real, genuine laughter.

After a while, our gaiety died down, and we just stood contemplating each other. No doubt John was trying to analyze me analyzing him, but he didn’t realize that I didn’t need to. I knew exactly what he was thinking and feeling. And it was like hell trying to accept it.

I asked him when he was leaving. He said two weeks.

Two. Weeks.

I knew immediately they would fly by like a minute, and then he’d be gone.

“You know we could video chat, if you like. If you need help on a case...” he began, but then he looked uncomfortable. He fidgeted in my arms. “Or if you just need someone to talk to."

I let go of his arms finally, realizing I had overstepped my boundaries. That wasn’t something I usually realized myself. John had to be the one to tell me. What did this mean?

“Yes, well, the skull is terrible company anyway.”

That made him smile, which was good. Then he frowned, which was not good.

“I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

I’m sure my eyes narrowed. “You can’t promise that.”

“Yes I can.” He leaned against the table and crossed his arms. “Because you’re right. You do need me.”

I felt his unspoken “I need you” more than I registered his actual words, and that was good enough for me.

I nodded numbly. The conversation seemed finished, so I turned back to my work. “Right then. Well, I should just leave you to prepare. Going back to the battlefield and all, I’m sure you’re a bit rusty. Target practice, perhaps? I’m positive you don’t particularly _need_ it, but you can’t ever be too sure with these thi--”

“How ‘bout some Chinese?”

I looked up at him and smiled. “God, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

The Chinese was good that night. The food was awful (I was forced to eat), but John and I in a Chinese restaurant was good.

We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the night, or the week for that matter. I continued with my work, and John continued to be my thoroughly reliable assistant. I think, in the back of both our minds, we were “cherishing” each other’s company, as John might put it. I would never admit that to anyone, and it took great effort to admit it to myself.

John and I were now at a crime scene. The victim had been brutally shot down by the force of a machine gun, and John made an offhand comment that he’d be seeing a lot more of this soon in Afghanistan. I thought nothing of it, and mumbled a sort of agreement.

But of course it had to be then that I realized the gravity of his situation.

“Oh my God!” Sally Donovan exclaimed when John had told the confused task force that he was to be deployed next week. I hadn’t realized Sally liked John that much. Honestly.

So the hug was unexpected, and when she brought _me_ (the freak) into it I nearly shouted at her for being so ridiculous. I said it instead (for John was in such close proximity) and she looked at me as if I was stupid. Me! Stupid!

“Sally, don’t...” John protested, but he was too late.

The slap was unexpected, as well.

“You insensitive _bastard_!” she started. “Of course a freak like you wouldn’t register that your own best mate is leaving to _risk his life_ fighting for his country! Do you have any concept of how dangerous it is over there? That he may not even come home?!”

Come home.

I hadn’t registered the slap, or her steadily growing shouting. I did comprehend, however, two things: that I hadn’t even thought about the words “may not even come home” until that moment, and that John had been trying to hold her back, or perhaps protect me from the truth.

“Sally, stop it! Of course he knows all that! Calm down!”

But I didn’t know that, John. Or perhaps I did, and I was denying myself the pleasure of coming to terms with it. Didn’t you know that?

* * *

I think it all settled in that he was really leaving me when he cooked the night before he left.

It was... rather unexpected. Lots of unexpected things were happening to me lately, and it was all frustrating, to say the least. I always expected things. I was the perceptive one...

When John called me out of my boredom with “Dinner, Sherlock!” I’d expected take-out or some other simple meal.

It seemed I’d been oblivious that night. I hadn’t even realized that he’d spent the entire day cleaning the kitchen preparing a three course dinner.

But my obtuseness didn’t bother him, it seemed. He looked rather pleased to see my expression upon entering the kitchen, and I wanted to strangle him for being so damn cheery when I realized what was going on.

Of course it was all unexpected when I’d been bored all day. I’d spent most of my time napping on the sofa-- my willingness to sleep was shocking to me. The rest of the day I had wasted away playing the violin and shooting the wall (not at the same time, but that would have been _quite_ an interesting experiment). I suppose I was also oblivious to John’s begging me to keep it down because he was concentrating on _cooking_. If I’d registered his pleading at all, it had been deleted on the premise of being unimportant.

One might ask why I hadn't spent the day with John, or at least demanded that I spend it with him, and if he wouldn't, I would have bothered him about it while he was cooking. The truth, the painfully obvious truth, was that I’d deleted the date he was to leave from my memory until he reminded me. I suppose I wanted to pretend that he wasn't really leaving, but unfortunately, I couldn't. Reality, that obnoxious and frightful entity that it was, was screaming in my ear.

Now I wished I’d paid more attention, wished I remembered. I wouldn't be so bored if I’d been curious about what he was doing. I could have even helped, but I was stuck with imagining him slaving over a hot stove, like a prim little housewife. What did this mean? Why did I care...?

He now stood at the farther end of the kitchen table, opposite me. His smile was large and inviting, his eyes sparkling with expectancy. “I just, uh, wanted to do something special, since we won’t be seeing each other for a while... After tomorrow.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair as he laughed. I hated that hair. He’d cut it yesterday, in accordance with army regulations. It reminded me of cold and unmoving John, before we met. Before he was _my_ John. Even the gray speck was gone. How I loved that gray speck.

“This is wonderful, John,” I said, before my thoughts betrayed me. I forced a smile on my face, even though I was internally screaming _“Don’t leave me alone, don’t go, don’t go and fight that war all alone, this has nothing to do with us, stay and cook for me. I’ll eat whatever you like, as long as you stay and cook it.”_

That train of thought repeated continuously as we ate together, presumably for the last time before he was ripped from the life I’d so carefully crafted for us. It was easy for me to pretend, to smile and act like I was complaining about eating food because it slowed me down (in truth it was the best food I’d ever had in my life), easy to listen to John’s stories of Afghanistan and his excitement of going back, easy to put on a mask that said “I’m happy for you,” easy to make it seem like I was fine.

 _‘Good God, John... Don’t you know I don’t know what I’m going to do without my my blogger?’_ I thought as I offered to wash the dishes. John was stunned, as I’d never offered to clean before. He wasn’t sure I knew how, and neither was I. Truly, I just wanted him to rest. He’d been working all day cooking and cleaning, just for me, when _I_ should have been cooking and cleaning for him. How considerate of me. God, was I developing a conscience? What did this mean? What was I doing? Why do I... _care?_

John. I cared because... because John cared.

And he was leaving for Afghanistan.

Tomorrow.

_Tomorrow..._

* * *

Tomorrow came far too soon.

My doctor couldn’t take much with him, so packing had been simple. So simple that I convinced him to let me do it, so that he could spend time preparing himself mentally for the war ahead. He protested, but I did it anyway. I couldn’t let him leave without doing something for him, after all he’d done for me...

So now we were in the cab early, heading for the airport. It was a silent ride until John said, “Sherlock, where’s your scarf?”

“I lost it. No matter. I can get another one.”

“Ah. It’s just... strange seeing you without it.”

I nodded curtly. The scarf was safe. I made sure of that.

That was when we arrived. I didn’t want to leave the safety of the cab, with John inside of course, for anything.

But he opened his door automatically and stepped out, so I was obliged to follow.

I walked behind him for once. It was incredible how completely I’d surrendered to the feeling of being with John. I’d eaten much more recently than I probably had in my entire life, just so I could laugh with him and spend time with him at the table. He enjoyed that, didn’t he?

But he’d been steadily more distant with each passing day, and it wasn’t until the night before that I felt I had his undivided attention. The way he had looked at me, I remembered how his eyes spoke a soft goodbye.

What did John do to me that made my walls crumble? I’d never felt the overwhelming sensation of sorrow before, or the fear of being alone. Alone had been a comfort before, alone protected me. Now it seemed foreign and strange, like an echo in a cave. Like darkness gnawing at my insides.

No no. That’s not it. Being alone wasn’t the problem, not now, not when it didn’t matter. It was the thought of going home to 221b Baker Street without him that drove me curiously insane inside.

What was this feeling, what did it mean? Why did I care? Why did my heart beat faster when I stared at his back, why did I want to take him into my arms and cart him off to some distant place where no one knew our names?

Why didn’t I...? Why didn’t I take his hand and whisper _“Come away with me...?”_

“Sherlock, you alright?”

I didn’t do anything because John would be unhappy. That was the core of it all... John’s happiness...

“Sherlock?”

We’d reached the terminal. When was this? Was it really time to tell him goodbye?

I reset my focus on my John’s face. Soon he’d be Afghanistan’s John. What would he be like when he came back home to me once again? Would he be the war hardened veteran he’d been when I’d first met him? Would he be scarred mentally, and never recover? Would I ever see _my_ John again?

Useless questions are useless.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. He looked like he wanted to hug me. I wasn’t ready for his goodbye yet. “You’ll... You’ll... You’ll call as soon as you land?” Stalling.

He nodded with his typical reassuring smile. “First chance I get.”

“Calls are expensive from Afghanistan, though. You don’t _have_ to call. I’m not more important that receiving your duties, you know.”

“I’ll call.”

More stalling.

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. No no no no no...! I would not cry. _I never cry!_ I’ll see myself hanged before I let a single drop of moisture fall in front of him. I _will_ see him soon. Just a few months, and he’ll be on leave, I know it. I do.

“It’s a shame your sister couldn’t be here.”

_Stalling._

“Yes, well, she was finalizing the divorce today. I’ll call her when I get there, too.”

“Mycroft too? He’s taken a liking to you, you know. Heaven knows why he has any interest in a friend of mine, other than to protect me. But he genuinely likes you, so it must be different. So you’ll call him.”

“I’ll call him too.”

“And Lestrade? The taskforce, too. Sally seemed particularly upset about your leaving.”

“Them too, Sherlock. I’ll call everyone.”

I nodded quickly. Stalling was quickly becoming my favorite pastime. John knew that too. I could care less if he called any of them, so long as he called me. _But why did I care if he called me?_

“Sherlock, I have to go now.”

“I know.”

We were just standing there, now. I didn’t want to step forward, because then it would really mean goodbye.

So I just stood there and observed him. I’d observed him many times throughout the course of our friendship. But now I wanted to store this image of him away in my rather large and organized mind palace. I backed it up, then I made copies of the back up, then I set it as my “desktop” so to speak. I placed the image in every file of my brain, so that whatever I opened, I would see John’s face staring up at me in understanding, smiling and sad. I would make sure that no matter what happened, no matter what the future might bring, that I would be unable to delete John Watson from my brain. He would be forever imprinted on my memory; his likes, dislikes, his hobbies, his mannerisms, his quirks, his expressions, his voice, his history, his compassion, his wisdom... his love... all stored for me in this one, singular, beautiful image of a man who I... who I...

“I’ll miss you,” the image said. Then I realized it wasn’t the image, but the real John speaking.

His smile was still unwavering. You’re a fool John Watson. A bloody fool. Stop smiling like that, you’re giving me a headache.

“I’ll miss your company,” I avoided, as I usually do.

Then he hugged me. Oh, God, don’t do that, don’t go, don’t leave me, stay please, stay! Don’t fight a war for me, I don’t need you to fight for me, stay take care of me, pick up my dirty laundry, cook for me, remind me to sleep, _force_ me to sleep. Just don’t leave, John, don’t leave me alone, I don’t want to be alone, not when I know now what it means to have a friend.

I inhaled his scent, that musky, warm smell that was nothing but home to me. He smelled like home. He _was_ home.

All the while, I didn’t let on how desperately I wanted to cry. I... _I never want to cry._ Why did John make me suffer in this way? Why was my heart beating so fast? I was so very angry with him for torturing me in this ridiculous fashion. I don’t think he even noticed me screaming at him from the inside, and that was just fine by me. He would be shocked, perhaps hate me for being so selfish, for begging him not to leave. But I was a selfish person.

Then he let go of me, and I felt my whole being collapse.

He nodded to me once, and saluted. Dammit John, don’t salute! Don’t remind me that you’re theirs now, and not mine.

His bag was in his hand, and he turned away. The terminal swallowed him whole.

I wasted no time in leaving the confining space of the building.

In my mind palace I retrieved the blueprints of the airport and began to sneak quickly to where I needed to be. Fairly soon I found myself on the runway, and I watched as his plane began to take off.

There was John’s face in the window, settling into his comfortable seat. And here was me, standing out in the cold air, the concrete barely holding me up.

The aeroplane was gaining speed, and I paid no mind to the people trying to stop me. I wasn’t allowed here... But I belonged.

I ran.

“Come home!” I shouted through the tears I only now allowed to fall. I shouted over and over, hoping to God he heard me, though I knew he didn’t.

I ran.

Next to the plane, following its path. The expanse of concrete and the danger didn’t stop me. But there was a gate up ahead which would prevent me from going further. The plane lifted off the ground and covered significant altitude.

I reached the barriers too soon, and I stopped running.

Now the better half of me was on his way to a war.

And I was the half that was too much of a coward to really say goodbye.

“Goodbye!” I shouted stupidly to the disappearing speck. “Goodbye! Come home! Be safe! … Have fun?! CALL ME! TEXT ME! _SAVE ME_!”

I was stuck, the words not forming properly on my tongue. There was a name to this feeling, I knew it. What if this emotion was an illusion, and I was just weighed down by stress and resentment toward my loneliness? I wanted to sink to the ground from the pressure against my heart, the pressure that shouldn’t exist because the heart was only an organ, not a mental entity. I kept forgetting that, deleting that fact in the favor of the more appealing explanation, the one that reassured me John was safe, John was whole, John was mine. That damn emotion that I finally let roar. Had it really been that suppressed all this time, and it was only now, when it was too late to tell him, that I felt it and could admit it to myself that I felt it?

It was devastating.

I couldn’t say it... Could I? Through my screams and sobbing and the people trying to stop me and the banging against the fence? I wasn’t myself... I needed to calm down. I wasn’t Sherlock Holmes anymore. I was someone else, in another time, in a movie, in a song, in a story.

I was a man who couldn’t even say it to John Watson’s face.

“I... I LOVE YOU!”


End file.
